Slow It Down

You push back.

Hard.

Your hands come up between your bodies and shove his chest with real force. The grinding stops. The controlling grip breaks. Both of you are left breathing hard, cocks still wet and aching, sweat cooling on your skin in the sudden space.

“Enough,” you say, voice rough but clear. “I came here to fuck, not get manhandled like this. You keep going and I’m walking out.”

The words land between you like a line drawn on the floor.

He goes still.

{if game:confidence >= 75}

For a second his eyes stay dark and heated. Then something shifts. He exhales slowly through his nose, but the intensity doesn’t leave his body — it just changes shape.

“Alright,” he says, voice still low and rough. “We’ll slow it down.”

He doesn’t reach for you with force again. Instead his hands come up with deliberate control, sliding over your sides, your chest, the damp skin of your stomach. When he touches your cock again the stroke is firm, possessive, but no longer punishing.

“Come here.” It’s not quite a request. “We’ll do it like this instead.”

What follows is mutual but still charged. He strokes you while you stroke him, both of you watching, both of you breathing harder. Mouths find necks and collarbones. The heat stays high. The meanness has been deliberately set aside, but the dominance in how he holds your gaze never fully leaves.

{elseif game:confidence >= 45}

His jaw tightens. Frustration flashes across his face, hot and obvious.

“You’re serious?” he asks, voice still rough from what he was doing a moment ago.

“Yeah.”

He stares at you for a long second, breathing hard, then lets out a short, sharp breath and steps back half a pace. His hands leave your body like it costs him.

“Fine. Have it your way.”

He doesn’t look happy about it. The air between you stays thick and electric. Both of you are still hard, still sweating, still very much in the middle of something that hasn’t cooled down — only changed direction.

{else}

He stays close for a moment longer than is comfortable, chest still rising hard, eyes still dark. You can see the instinct to keep pushing written in every line of his body.

Then he forces it under control.

A long breath leaves him. He doesn’t step far, but he does open his hands and stop using his weight against you.

“Okay,” he says, voice quiet and still rough with authority. “We’ll stop. No more of that.”

He holds your gaze, making sure you feel the weight of the decision.

“I don’t want you to leave. So we do it your way. But you’re still here, and I’m still hard, and neither of us is done.”

The roughness is gone. What’s left is pure heat and the clear sense that he is choosing to respect the line — not because he has to, but because he wants you to stay.

{endif}

The room feels smaller. Both of you are still sweating, still hard, still smelling like sex and effort. The next decision is simple and final.